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[color=7e5e7f][i]O 

moy 

Bbbbbbog.[/i][/color]

Lifetimes ago in something that used to be called the American West— or maybe it was Europe?— executions were carried out by hanging. But for a time the tradition had been poorly written, so the legend says, that the sentence itself was hanging. If you were hung and survived you had carried out your grim sentence and were free to go. Eventually of course it was amended to "hung until death", thus ensuring a proper execution until some Hastan went and invented the guillotine.

Evidently, Rivka decided, the Duodecim were true traditionalists. They seemed to believe that cadets should be hung on every formal occasion.

The damnable noose around here neck couldn't possibly be as tight as it felt, but every time she tried to subtly finagle it into a position that did not deprive her of life-giving oxygen it seemed to tighten with renewed vigor. No more did she cast her attention away from it, seeking [i]anything at all[/i] else to pay attention to in this affair, then it redoubled its efforts to strangle the world's most promising hero in her very seat. Worse than her boredom,, worse even than the accursed tie, was the fact that she had to be on her best behavior. A very stern injunction had been issued against any chicanery when they were informed as to what was required of them. To what end then, Rivka had almost demanded to know, was the point of the damned party? Was there not to be joy? Merriment? Entertainment? If the point was to show off the new crop of cadets, should she not show off?

[color=7e5e7f]Bluuuuuugh.[/color]

She had tuned out at the first stiff, atonal, and formalistic speech and never properly tuned back in. Who cared? She didn't. Let her sing. Let her dance. Let her fight! Something! She was going to waste away into dust still upon her very chair and they would still be ta-

Oh, finally.

She could get up and move. Maybe she could finally find someone to talk with, or—

The waltz began, and her eyes rolled so far back into her head that she could witness before her own eyes the breakage of her own mind.

Truly the waltz had been scandalous... Once. A few centuries ago. The dancers had, [i]bozhe moy[/i], been touching so indecently! They were joined at more than the hand! They faced each other! There was no room for God between their bodies, how dare the peasants seek to replace the minuet! Oh, the pianist played marvelously; of course they did, the Duodecim would never hire less than the best. At least, the best they knew about. But the selection! Worse, the Officers Academy was here. The notion of dancing with, or worse being lead by, a flatfooted officer-and-gentleman-to-be? Absolutely detestable.

In that moment, as her act of mild defiance, she finally yanked the tie off of her neck and stuffed it into the pocket of her (admittedly very nice) double-breasted uniform jacket. If they were looking closely enough to notice something amiss below her buttoned jacket she had other complaints to make, but they would not hang her again. Not unless it was to the death, for they would not get that rope back around her neck again tonight alive. This she vowed. Maybe Selma would help her knock out the pianist so she could take their place. Liven the mood up.

Still, best to mingle in the hopes of somehow salvaging some entertainment from this officious occasion. So with poise and grace, and a better sense of the footwork involved in the dance than she cared to believe anyone else had, she stood from her team's table, gave them all her most winning smile, and began to walk out unto the breach that was the hall's incipient social scene.